


oh, don't call it a nightmare

by anetherealmelody



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Drabble Collection, Dreams and Nightmares, Dreams vs. Reality, Evil Jschlatt (Video Blogging RPF), Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt Toby Smith | Tubbo, Memories, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit Friendship, Toby Smith | Tubbo Angst, Toby Smith | Tubbo Misses TommyInnit, Villain Jschlatt (Video Blogging RPF)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:14:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27835096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anetherealmelody/pseuds/anetherealmelody
Summary: A collection of unrelated, angsty MCYT drabbles.
Relationships: Jschlatt & Toby Smith | Tubbo, Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit
Comments: 14
Kudos: 106





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: "This will be the last time you lie to me."
> 
> tw // physical abuse

“This will be the last time you lie to me,” Schlatt says.

His voice is soft with the the scary kind of malice—the kind that reminds Tubbo too keenly of Techno’s rage, of Wilbur’s rage. It’s a different kind of rage than Tommy’s, whose emotion is always proportional to his volume, to his violence. 

He is terrified, but he does not move.

He does not retaliate, because Niki taught him patience. He does not scowl, because Techno taught him detachment. He does not flinch, because Wilbur taught him calm.

He does not cower, because Tommy taught him bravery.

He shakes—his legs and his chest and his arms and his heart; spasming in terror, clenching and unclenching in anticipation of the inevitable—but he does not voluntarily move. 

Schlatt looks at him with something so close to apathy it may be mistaken as hatred. Tubbo doesn’t understand how he manages it—two conflicting, contradicting emotions—but he does all the same; his eyes glint sharply, narrowed like he can read Tubbo’s thoughts, like he can read Tubbo’s heart. 

And that’s a different kind of terror altogether—not one for himself, but for his friends. For his family. 

Because if Schlatt can read his thoughts, if Schlatt can read his heart, he’ll discover a loyalty burning deeper than any political power or pristine White Houses or threats of physical pain could every bring about. 

He’ll find a loyalty not to Manberg. Not even to L’Manberg or Pogtopia.

He’ll find a loyalty to a _person_. 

Because Tubbo’s home isn’t this country or their old country or Tommy’s new country or even Dream SMP. 

Tubbo’s home is Tommy. 

If Schlatt sees that—if Schlatt realizes what he’s been doing; who he’s been talking to; who he’s been working with—

But, then, he already knows, doesn’t he? Isn’t that why he’d summoned Tubbo here in the first place? Isn’t that why Quackity lurks in the shadows behind him, holding a whip that glints in the darkness? 

Schlatt knows.

_Schlatt knows_. 

He must warn Tommy.

“Do you understand?” Schlatt asks quietly, lethally. 

Tubbo swallows. His eyes are wide and fearful; his heart beating an erratic, haunted melody in his chest, begging desperately for relief, for reprieve. 

“Yes,” he manages, mouth dry, voice rasping. He nods to make up for it.

It makes no difference.

Schlatt glances at Quackity and nods. Quackity flinches as he hands the whip to Schlatt—eyes glued to the ground, face pale, forehead scrunched. 

“A reminder,” Schlatt says lowly, and raises the whip. “To help you remember.”

Tubbo squeezes his eyes shut, but he does not move. 

He does not beg, because Niki taught him patience. He does not scream, because Techno taught him detachment. He does not wince, because Wilbur taught him calm.

He does not cry, because Tommy taught him bravery.

He is terrified, but he does not move, because captivity has taught him silence, and solitude has taught him strength.

And those are good things, he knows—solitude, strength.

It doesn’t matter. He misses who he was before so, so much, but knows—with a visceral, omniscient, overwhelming certainty—that he will never, ever, be that person again. 

That knowledge—and the slashes so excruciating they redefine his previous definitions of pain—are too much to bear. 

With blank, unseeing eyes, and a far away mind, Tubbo floats away.


	2. knowledge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "You know it's not like that."

He in his Manberg, in his bed, and he knows this—but he is _really_ in L’Manberg, grinning at Tommy as he slots his disc into the jukebox, praying and hoping that somehow, _somehow_ , this will end the way it started—that their future will mirror this night, that everything will be okay. 

He slumps against Tommy’s shoulder, and Tommy doesn’t brush him off. He remembers this day; these feelings. This is how it started. This is how it is meant to be. Back before Tommy was only concerned with the war, or with Wilbur, or with how Wilbur and the war related. Back before freedom was a dream, not a living nightmare. Back before he flinched at leads because they looked too much like whips; back before he flinched at sunlight because it meant another day, another risk, another piece of his heart blackened, shattered, burned. 

Tommy sighs—light and airy, not world-weary—and Tubbo rustles closer into his shoulder. Tommy snorts, but Tubbo doesn’t mind because then Tommy sighs _again_ —this time in reluctant acquiescence—and wraps an arm around his shoulder, drawing him into a half hug.

“I’m hungry,” Tommy says. 

“We just ate.”

“I know.”

Tubbo closes his eyes. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It’s probably because I’m growing.”

“No, it’s probably not.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’ve finished.”

Tommy scrunches up his features. Tubbo can’t see, but he knows he is right with the intrinsic kind of knowledge that one knows things about their siblings or best friends—he can hear it in his voice, he can see it in his mind, he can translate the lilts and diction without a shadow of a doubt.

“I have _not_ ,” Tommy says. “I don’t know why you always say that.”

“You haven’t grown in ages, Tommy.”

“And? What’s to say I can’t grow now?”

Tubbo opens his eyes just to roll them. “You know it’s not like that.”

“I hate you,” Tommy says, and leans his cheek on Tubbo’s head. 

“No, you don’t,” Tubbo says. “You know I’m right.”

“Wil says I might still grow.”

“Now you’re just lying.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“Am not.”

“This is stupid.”

“You’re stupid.”

Tubbo sighs. “You’re giving me a headache.”

“Are you the one whose head feels like they haven’t eaten all day? I swear to Ender, I’m about to pass out—”

Tubbo exhales softly. He knows he is not here. That he is in a different time, a different place; that his mind has sent him where he wishes his body could go. He knows what waits for him beyond this haven is something far worse than a headache.

He is afraid of what waits there, but he falls asleep in L’Manberg, and if—when he wakes in Schlatt’s White House—he is hurt, this knowledge will make it all okay.

He is afraid of what waits there, but he falls asleep on Tommy’s shoulder, and if—when he wakes in Schlatt’s White House—he is alone, this feeling will make it all okay. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "decline"

Someone knocks on his door.

Sharp grief pierces his heart, and, all of a sudden, it’s all falling apart again, right before his eyes—Tommy burning George’s house, Tommy’s trial, Tommy’s lies, Tommy’s plan to take down Technoblade, Tommy’s full faith in him collapsing in one incredulous, heart-shattering instant. And he knows— _knows_ —Tommy well enough to recognize that glint in his eyes as one of deep-cut betrayal, one of irredeemable, unforgivable hurt. Tommy has been damaged, and his best friend had wielded the weapon, and there was pain in both of their eyes—one pair reluctant pain, the other pair shocked pain—but now there is only one pair left.

It’s no use considering. Tommy betrayed him first, by breaking—over and over—his explicitly set laws. 

He can’t have chosen anything else.

The teardrops on his cheeks are brushed swiftly away. He glances at his door—which he’s barricaded with his desk chair—and asks, “Who is it?”

“Fundy. Can I come in?”

His initial question was only out of propriety. He has no intention whatsoever of allowing anyone to see him.

“Maybe in the morning,” he says, voice rough with leftover tears. He clears his throat. “I’m finishing something up and then heading to bed.”

“Tubbo—” Fundy starts.

Tubbo closes his eyes, but only sees the outline of his best friend—sailing, sailing, sailing on a boat led by the green man they used to call _enemy_ , and now are expected to call _ally_ , accompanied by only a ghost of a man; looking back with wide, desperate, pleading eyes, and setting aside his pride for a few raw moments to beg, _beg_ to be allowed to stay, to beg Tubbo to change his mind— _What are you doing, Tubbo? How could you? How_ could _you?_ —but Tubbo did not.

Tubbo did not.

His mind was made, and Tommy asked him to change it, and Tubbo did not.

Now Tommy is gone.

His lip wobbles. The tears return. His voice is steady, though, as he again declines Fundy’s offer. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?” he adds, hopeful it’ll distract Fundy from the hollow note to his voice.

It does, or it doesn’t—he doesn’t care, and he doesn’t care to find out.

After a few reluctant moments, Fundy’s footsteps recede. 

And Tubbo can only think, over and over and over like his thoughts are on endless loop—

_It’s all my fault._


End file.
